


Wrap You [In The Heaven]

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Comeplay, Fluff and Smut, M/M, POV Dean, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Soulmates, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a tactile person - always has been. There are certain things he knows the feel of like the back of his own hand: the worn, smooth, taut stretch of the Impala’s vinyl seats; the beaten down, soft, buttery weight of his dad’s old leather jacket; the reassuring two pounds thirteen ounces of his loaded gun, its hard edges and the etchings of the flourish under the pad of his thumb. </p><p>Then there’s Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrap You [In The Heaven]

**Author's Note:**

> I have been in a super depressing writing funk for a month and this is my tentatively pleased return to words. There is - I'm not at all sorry to say - zero plot and 100% sexy brother loving. Plus, a new kink I haven't written before (yay kinks!).
> 
> I do hope you enjoy.
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-lovely [gluedwithgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluedwithgold)
> 
> Title taken from Bad Company's _Feel Like Makin' Love_

Dean is a tactile person - always has been. There are certain things he knows the feel of like the back of his own hand: the worn, smooth, taut stretch of the Impala’s vinyl seats; the beaten down, soft, buttery weight of his dad’s old leather jacket; the reassuring two pounds thirteen ounces of his loaded gun, its hard edges and the etchings of the flourish under the pad of his thumb.

 

Then there’s Sam.

 

Dean has had his hands on his little brother more than any other human or weapon combined. Once upon a time it was with all the innocence of children and brotherhood. It’s something else entirely now, has been for longer than it hasn’t, and while Dean couldn’t tell you precisely how that happened he also doesn’t care enough to do so. He wasted enough time with second-guessing and self-loathing to know it’s not worth another thought - not when it feels more right in his heart and in his hands than anything else he’s ever known.

 

Dean’s hands know every valley between his brother’s ribs, the dips of his collar, the jut of his hips, the long lines of the thick veins in his neck and arms when his brother’s blood is really pumping; Dean knows each fold of his brother’s ears, his scattered, sometimes secret moles, the curve of his spine, the dimples there and the ones in his cheeks. His hands have mapped out every inch of the still baby-smooth honey-warm skin that keeps them apart.

 

Dean knows the whorls of Sam’s fingertips to taste them; he knows how they feel brushing against his lips and pressed to the flat of his tongue. He recognizes points and ridges of every perfect, pretty tooth in his brother’s mouth, the feel of every smooth curve on each surface.

 

Sam’s hair is a shelter for Dean’s hands; he swears he probably knows every strand - not that he’d ever tell Sam - and his fingers instinctively comb them out, pet them down, and tug them just enough.

 

Dean knows just how hard he can pull at Sam’s nipples, pinching them with his fingers or digging in with his teeth, worrying the irresistible nubs between them only to lap at them, flick them gently, teasingly, with the tip of his tongue. He knows just what to do to get his little brother writhing underneath him, bowing his back and canting his hips while his elegant hands fumble and scrabble for an anchor along Dean’s back or in the sheets. Dean knows when Sam’s nipples have had enough, swollen and abused just enough that the last easy lick and sucking kiss he gives each of them makes Sam sigh his name.

 

Sam responds to him like his hands are magic and maybe they are. Dean has always marvelled how they seem to fit his brother’s throat as readily as his dick, like somehow they’re perfectly built for both. His thumbs stroke lovingly at the underside of Sam’s chin which tilts up for him eagerly, excited by the promise, pleading. Dean trails them down the lines of Sam’s neck, framing the ridges of his windpipe and then feeling the rapid, steady beat of his brother’s pulse.

 

Sam’s very _life_ is in his hands because Sam needs to put it there, needs to _feel_ how Dean protects him, how he loves him. More than that, Sam needs Dean to know how he trusts him, how he loves _him_.

 

Oh, and Dean knows.

 

So he presses in harder and Sam only relaxes into it, his body loose under Dean’s hands; he doesn’t panic. His eyes roll back and his mouth parts on a silent, mock inhale that Dean swallows down. He counts in his head as he traces Sam’s lips, lets go his grip as Sam’s body naturally tightens with decreasing oxygen.  He feels a rush as he hears the air flood back into Sam’s lungs and the sound turns to a moan.

 

“Dean…” Sam breathes. It’s desperate and rough, barely loud enough for Dean to hear but it doesn’t matter. Dean always hears him. Not only does Dean know the feel of his brother inside and out, he knows every sound, every plea, everything that Sam is and does and gives that’s meant just for him.

 

Dean knows from the hard heat of Sam’s dick where it pulses and leaks between them how strung out Sam is, how expertly Dean is taking him apart.

 

And Dean is far from done.

 

Sam is a gift, Dean is sure, and the only thing that he believes in. Sam is the only thing worth anything - _everything_ \- and the only thing that could possibly make the life they lead bearable. Dean makes sure Sam knows this as surely as Dean knows it to be true and he tells him with his hands and his lips and tongue.

 

Sam’s hands shake as they reach up for Dean’s face. Sam is _open_ like this, the colour bright on his cheeks and the corners of his darkened eyes wet with tears, his mouth puffy, pink, and parted in a blissed out smile. Dean smiles back as Sam’s clammy fingertips dance at his temples, uncoordinated as they try to bring him down.

 

“You’re so beautiful, Sammy, fuck,” Dean whispers before kissing his brother easy and deep, languid but strong and final when he eventually pulls back. Sam is panting when he chases his brother’s mouth and Dean’s eyes are soft and gentle but crinkles at their corners and the smile he wears are devilish.

 

Dean has charted all the best pathways along Sam’s body, all the ones that lead to every Heaven on Earth Dean has ever known. He lets his lips make their way across Sam’s jaw and down his neck, pausing to tongue at the sweat-slick hollow at the base of his throat. Sam hums, his hands still shaky as they rake through Dean’s short hair.

 

Dean continues quickly down the length of Sam’s body. He might know Sam’s dick better than he knows his own if only for the way that he knows it sight, touch and taste. He steadies himself and his brother with a firm grip on Sam’s hip and with the other hand gives Sam a few teasing tugs, savouring the familiar feel of the velvety soft skin, the size, and the weight of him before taking him into his mouth.

 

He sucks gently at first, quiet so he can hear every stop-start of Sam’s gasps as he does it. Dean tongues around the head, feels Sam shudder, and grins around his mouthful. He works his tongue into the slit and is rewarded with a salty-bitter burst that makes his eyes flutter close as he moans, the heady taste so much Sam, so much his, that his own dick twitches and leaks, too.

 

Dean moves his hand loosely up and down the base of his brother’s cock in time to the suck of his mouth, revelling in how hard Sam struggles not to thrust up into him. He opens his lips to let spit and precome drip down Sam’s length and over his fingers, then takes his soaked hand away and takes Sam in all the way to the base. Sam jerks under him, gasping, and Dean just breathes deeply through his nose, high on the scent of his brother and the feeling of being full of him.

 

Sam curses above him, all manner of filth and dirty words that only Dean can coax from him when he’s like this - out of his mind and balls deep inside his brother.

 

It’s now that Dean slips two of his wet fingers behind Sam’s balls and past the tight pucker of his hole, punching a low, desperate groan from his little brother. It’s tight - _fuck_ \- he always is and it’s a smooth, clenching fire that lights Dean up like nothing else, burns him to his very core every time. He bobs in an easy rhythm on his brother’s dick as he scissors his fingers and fucks them in and out. Sam thrashes on the bed, torn between thrusting up and bucking back, his head tossing this way and that on the pillow and his dick twitching against the roof of Dean’s mouth.

 

Dean’s fingerprints coat Sam’s insides all over, etched there forever by the frequency of their presence and the fierceness of their claim. Dean can picture them clear as any brand, marking his brother like no one else ever could, so thoroughly, because Sam could never belong to anyone else. They were born belonging to each other.

 

The thought sends hot shivers across Dean’s skin and when he pets at Sam’s prostate his little brother bucks his hips suddenly and spills into his mouth, his muscles seizing and squeezing hard around Dean’s fingers like his body knows Dean is supposed to be there.

 

“Dean!” Sam cries as he empties, pulse after pulse, onto Dean’s tongue and Dean swallows it all down, desperate for it, addicted to it, completely at the mercy of his kid brother and everything he has to give him.

 

As the throes of Sam’s orgasm let him go, Sam goes heavy and lax underneath him, the grip of Dean’s fingers buried third-knuckle-deep easing too, his body perfectly pliant and inviting. Dean sucks at his brother until he’s done and Sam’s panting breaths are a small whine. Gently letting Sam go, Dean licks his come-covered lips and leans up for a kiss.

 

“Taste so good, baby boy,” Dean mutters against Sam’s lips. “Just for me. So fucking good.”

 

Sam wears a lazy smile when Dean stops kissing him and with the hand not trapped inside Sam’s body he nudges his brother’s hips up and tucks a pillow under them to keep them that way. Sam may be a giant but he loves to be manhandled and Dean loves to do it, loves when his brother is like he is now, putty in his hands, poseable however Dean wants him.

 

Sam whimpers with a genuine pout when Dean finally takes back his other hand, leaving his brother empty to reach behind his knees.

 

“I know, baby. Hate leaving you empty, gotta get inside you. I got you, Sammy. I’m coming,” Dean speaks softly, soothing, as he pushes his brother’s legs back, folding them and pinning them between their chests. He wastes no time reaching then for the earlier discarded bottle of lube that thankfully hadn’t disappeared somewhere in the sheets, slicking himself up and pushing in. He bottoms out in one slow, steady motion to the sound of Sam’s short, stuttering breaths.

 

“De- Dean, Dean, _Dean_ -” Sam is gasping, mindless again with the way Dean fills him, and he reaches up to lock his hands together around the back of Dean’s neck. Sam’s body is relaxed and open to him but his hands hold on like Dean is his only lifeline.

 

“Yeah, Sammy, fuck- so tight. Goddamn, baby brother,” Dean mumbles against his brother’s forehead, an echo of salt on his lips, a little mindless himself now as he starts thrusting into him in earnest. He’s slow on the pull out, hard and fast going back in, the slap of their skin echoed by the steady _uh-uh-uhs_ spilling from Sam’s lips that he fucks out of him with each snap of his hips.

 

Dean’s never had a home, not in a conventional sense, and everything in his life, really, has been all manner of unconventional, so as he carves a space for himself in the warm, welcoming haven of his brother’s body while Sam’s hands tight on his neck beg him ever closer, he’s not surprised to think distantly that he _is_ home - _here_. Sam is his home; it’s the only reason any of this works, the only reason _Dean_ still works. Without Sam, Dean would be brotherless, homeless, helpless; Sam is his _everything_.

 

He betrays his thoughts with a cut-off sob and fucks into his brother with a renewed vigor, a desperate growl working its way out from between his clenched teeth.

 

“Sam- Sammy, sweetheart,” he babbles and Sam knows. He lets out a breathy moan and his thumbs stroke lovingly at Dean’s skin where they’re still clasped behind his head. Sam’s body jerks a little up the bed with the force of Dean’s hips and still he tilts his chin and bears his neck to his brother.

 

“Fuck yeah, Sammy,” Dean breathes and slides a hand up to straddle the beautiful, glistening expanse of exposed, delicate skin.

 

More of Dean’s weight presses down on Sam’s legs where they’re folded between them as he supports himself with just one hand now braced on the mattress but Sam doesn’t seem to mind.

 

“Tell me, baby. Say it, need you to say it.” Dean begs him, hand hovering under Sam’s chin.

 

“Fuck- _please_ , Dean,” Sam whispers, arching to push his neck against Dean’s palm. “Need it. Need you. Do it, big brother.”

 

The last word is broken when Dean tightens his grip, pressing in, and the sound makes him ache. His breathing is erratic as he squeezes Sam’s throat, still thrusting into him.

 

Dean is so close. When Sam’s body clenches around him and he eases his hold to let Sam breathe again, the sound of Sam gasping and the way his muscles spasm around him pushes him over.

 

“Sam-” Dean sobs as paints his brother’s insides hot and white with come, his hips stilling and his body shuddering in waves as it wrecks him.

 

Dean is vaguely aware that Sam is still sucking in great gasps of air, they sound like Dean’s name now, needy like he’s dying and his little brother is coming again, untouched, his muscles rippling tightly around Dean as he does, wringing out every last drop that Dean has to give him.

 

When Sam is finally spent, panting, his legs tremble violently against Dean’s chest. Sweat makes them slick, their skin sliding easily everywhere they touch, and the mess on Sam’s stomach makes Dean’s mouth water just to think about it. He forces himself to move and eases Sam’s shaking legs down to the bed. Sam’s hands relax, too, dropping to his sides and leaving him sprawled out looking sated and thoroughly fucked, his body covered in a splattering of come from navel to nipples.

 

Dean is careful as he slips out but Sam always hates this part - they both do - and Sam makes a sad, protestant sound that tightens Dean’s heart.

 

“Shh, I know, baby. I’m sorry,” Dean coos, his hands stroking along the insides of Sam’s thighs. He presses gently against Sam’s knees to get them further apart and Sam just lets him.

 

“That’s it, lemme see what we did, Sammy, _yeah_ ,” Dean sucks in a breath as he parts Sam’s cheeks with one hand, spying the puffy, red lips of his wrecked hole and the first dribble of come that’s making its escape.

 

“ _Fuck yes_ ,” Dean hisses like the sight pains him. Sam hums and smiles because he knows better.

 

Dean shuffles back and leans down, gracelessly nosing under Sam’s balls to lick up what’s already leaked out, the intoxicating taste of himself with the secret, musky taste that’s all Sam and another thing that only Dean knows.

 

He starts gently with kisses and long strokes with the flat of his tongue but it gets to him so quickly it’s obscene the way he goes at it, the hungry sounds he makes as he cleans Sam out are greedy and Sam just gives it up, trembling and shifting his spread legs restlessly where they bracket Dean’s body between them.

 

They’re both half hard again by the time Dean is satisfied, placing one last, chaste kiss to Sam’s hole before crawling back up the bed, meticulously licking up everything drying on Sam’s stomach as he goes.

 

Sam’s eyes are closed and his hair is everywhere, a tangled mess behind his head with a few rogue strands plastered to his face. Dean tucks those pieces back behind his brother’s ears and Sam turns into the touch even as he sleeps.

 

Dean kisses him, licks slowly into his slack mouth, and Sam stirs against him, teases his tongue along Dean’s as they lazily continue.

 

Finally, Dean breaks the kiss with a long, happy sigh against his brother’s listless lips.

 

Nothing can make him feel like this, like Sam does. He knows nothing better than he knows his brother. The feel of Sam in his hands, against him, around him, is the most important thing he could ever know.

 

Dean never cared much for how fucked up it might be from that very first kiss so many years ago, when he felt it in his bones how it was the only way, the only _right_ for them in a world seemingly determined to do them every _wrong_. Whatever the fragments of Dean’s tarnished soul are made of, he knows the pieces are only held together by the glue of Sam, the only wholeness in his life found in his brother’s arms.

 

 

He settles in at Sam’s side with a quick kiss to his brother’s salt-laced temple.

 

“Love you, kiddo,” he says quietly, brushing his lips against the shell of Sam’s ear as he relaxes into place.

 

Sam shifts like he’s trying to get impossibly closer and hums a little as he does.

 

“Love you, Dean,” he whispers back, and Dean can’t even be sure that Sam’s awake, but it doesn’t matter.

 

He’s smiling as sleep takes him and the night passes with Dean holding Sam to him tightly, all the evil in the world be damned.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading. Kudos and comments are love ❤


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